True Divide (12 page)

Even when I'm nearly convinced this emotional swan dive will work out to my benefit, I can't ignore the obvious. Because I'm a woman, and as Trevor put it, we think too much. One thing we always think about is “after.” After he ruins me for sex with anyone else, which I'm pretty sure he will, what then? He left before with no warning. If he did it then, when our lives were as simple as they would ever be, when we were an open book waiting for a happy ending, what stops him from doing it now?

“You already left once. Just left. Adios, folks. And there were
some
people who figured they might have at least gotten a little warning about your plans. Maybe if they were clued in, they would have gotten you a bon voyage cake or something.”

When I finish, it's clear how much this still bothers me. It's ancient history between kids—and we aren't kids anymore—but even now, I can feel the ache of realizing he was gone and not knowing what I did wrong.

“Lacey, just to be clear, when I left I wasn't leaving
you.
I left Crowell. That place was suffocating me.”

His voice is calm, but the words are exacting; no apologies for how bailing like that might have affected anyone else. My first instinct is to demand more, an apology or a concession. At the least, he could own up to skipping over the courtesy of a good-bye. Instead, I take a deep breath and muster the courage to tell him what I thought every time I cried myself to sleep that summer.

“I would have followed you anywhere.
Anywhere.
But you didn't even give me the chance.”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “God, you didn't belong in the places I ended up. I couldn't take care of you. Fuck, I could barely take care of myself. I had two hundred bucks and a backpack, no plan beyond getting out of town, zero backstop.”

He pauses, another sigh. “I watched you the entire day at graduation. You were wearing this pretty little pink dress under your gown, with your hair all done up, and I realized for the millionth time just how fucking perfect you are. And I couldn't risk even saying good-bye to you, which I'm sorry for, but if I didn't leave without looking back, it would have ended me. Trust me when I tell you that it was the hardest decision I ever made, but I was trying to do the right thing. For both of us.”

Despite the apology in there, a flash of almost anger passes over me, making my response abrupt. “
That
is what makes me nervous. You decided what the right thing was. You never asked me what I thought.”

After that, he tries to apologize in earnest, but in the logical part of my head, I know he doesn't really owe me that. The kid who made a choice years ago isn't the man who's on the other end of this line.

That swan dive now feels like a belly flop; the whole thing stings and it's knocked the wind out of me. We say good night because there isn't anything else to say.

Three hours and one impulse online shoe purchase later, I check my email for the purchase confirmation on the over-the-knee whiskey-brown boots I'm convinced will make me feel better. Instead, I find something else.

TO:
laciegracie93

FROM:
jake.holt6239

SUBJECT:
[none]

I was in love with you. You know that, right?

So it killed me to leave you.

I can take care of you now. I couldn't then.

I can take care of you now.

We've reconnected for a grand total of a few hours in person and spent a couple weeks emailing each other. When in that time did he decide to make this something real? And, God help me, I'm not sure why, but just seeing those words is enough to have me grabbing my phone again. We've had the conversation I thought we needed to have and even if it didn't end on a high note, it's done. We can cross it off the list. Confront Ex For Disappearing Act. Check.

I falter a bit before hitting the call button, just to be sure I want to do this. Gnawing on the edge of a pinkie nail, I make my choice. Yes. I do.

When he picks up, I don't even get a chance to announce my intentions before he launches in. “Lacey? Don't hang up or anything. Please, let me—”

I cut him off. “Your hands.”

Jake makes a confused sound, halfway between a cough and a snort. “What?”

“In your email from this morning, you asked me what my thoughts were on your ass and other body parts. I'm answering you. I can't stop thinking about your hands.”

The sound of him relaxing, via a soft laugh, makes my heart ache a little. “Yeah? Feel free to elaborate. Go ahead, I've got all night.”

“They're bigger now. And your fingers are all rough, in a really, really good way. When you had your hands on my thighs, I thought I was going to lose it.”

“Hold on a second.” In the background, there is the faint sound of rustling and shuffling. “OK. My hands, my fingers, your body. Go.”

“What?”

“Go. Say everything you've been thinking about my hands on your body. Don't hold back. Full disclosure, I've gotten comfortable on my couch and unzipped my pants in preparation.”

“Jake!”

He laughs again, full and deep this time. “Isn't it better that I told you? Would have been super-creepy if I was stroking myself off without you knowing, right? Make it good, now. I need this. I think you need it, too.”

I do. I need this. I need us to have a conversation about wanting each other, instead of ancient history and old aches. I want to talk about the things that keep me awake at night
now
, not years ago.

So even if he's states away, the sound of his voice growing restless and impatient as I tell him all the wild things I've thought about is enough. The imagined feel of his fingers on my legs, the places that ache, the spots I need him to make better. The ways I want him to soothe me. Tease me. The exact, specific, hard way I want him to finish me.

When his voice turns hoarse, mine loosens. When his breath turns choppy, mine lengthens into heavy, long pants. When he gives in, there is a space in time where his tense silence is enough to send my head spinning, followed by a long groan and cursing that I can barely hear over the sound of my own release. Before, he always came quietly, mouth open, but almost no sound. It fascinated me, watching his face, the intensity and pleasure of that moment taming the guy who always seemed untameable. But now, he gives it up as a man should, unabashed and unafraid.

TO:
laciegracie93

FROM:
jake.holt6239

SUBJECT:
That was . . .

 . . . awesome.

Totally hot.

You sounded amazing when you let go.

PS: When did you learn all those very dirty words?

TO:
laciegracie93

FROM:
jake.holt6239

SUBJECT:
The morning after

Woke up wanting you. How is it that something that felt so right last night feels like not enough eight hours later?

If you care about me at all, you'll call me later and do it again.

7

I
n every relationship there comes a time when everything begins to go according to plan. The days or weeks when a man says and does all the right things. When your hair is shiny and ceaselessly frizz free, when your skin behaves and doesn't betray you by erupting hormonally, when every outfit you own looks as good on your body as it does hanging in the closet.

This phase coincidentally occurs right after you start having good sex, I think. While I'm certainly no scientist, I'm sure it has something to do with all the feel-good hormones.

The fact that this seems to be happening now, when Jake has only done sexual things to me via phone or email, should emphasize the man's prowess. He is, evidently, that damn good. Twelve hundred miles away, only words in the place of real touch, and I'm sporting a half grin from the time the sun rises until my eyes finally drift closed at night.

Take this morning. After my shower, I realized that I never put conditioner in my hair. Given the slightly coarse, trending-toward-wavy state of my hair, this would normally result in my wearing a haphazard braid over one shoulder in an effort to have the frizz come off as beachy casual somehow. In Montana, where beachy waves make complete sense in the middle of winter, obviously.

Instead of the rat's nest I was expecting, after a dab of Moroccan oil from root to tip, I walked out the door wearing a jade-green sweaterdress with my new over-the-knee boots and my hair in loose waves that looked neither inappropriately beachy nor haphazard. I swear I hated this dress last week. Today? Love it.

I love the stupid birds chirping outside my window before dawn. I really like the puffs of frigid air that hang in front of me with every exhale as I walk out to my car in the fifteen-degree temps. I don't mind scraping the frost off my windows so much. I kick the stubborn door of The Beauty Barn twice and barely register the twitch of pain in my toe as I do.

Hormones. Pheromones. Don't care.

After a few hours of whistling and grinning to myself, when the front door chimes and a burst of cold air follows, I'm pleased enough with my outfit and my hair and the entire universe to call out, “Good morning,” so loudly that I have to remind myself to bring it down a few notches.

Then I experience the one phenomenon that can ruin a good-hair day and a perfect outfit in one blow.

A dust storm.

That's what Kate calls it when Dusty saunters into a room on a mission. Doesn't matter what kind of mission particularly. Rural misdemeanor crime-stopping. Loud political tirade soapbox-ing. Waistline-busting french-fry seeking. Regardless of his mission, though, his belly always enters the room first.

“Someone sounds awfully chipper this morning.”

Dusty lets the door close slowly behind him and stops a few feet inside, just next to a display of at-home lip-waxing kits I keep on hand for the over-sixty crowd. The juxtaposition seems both odd and hilarious for some reason. Perhaps it's the spattering of chest hair creeping from the open collar of Dusty's light tan uniform shirt. I rather want to rip each hair out with wax that's not quite hot enough to do a clean job. He shoves his thumbs into the barely visible waistband of his cowboy-cut jeans and kicks one hip out.

“This good mood of yours have anything to do with Jake Holt?”

My mood immediately dims. Dusty is asking about Jake, which means he knows. Even though he isn't entitled to an opinion on the topic, I know you can't share a life with someone for as long as we did and remain indifferent to seeing them move on. Unfortunately, Dusty isn't known for taking the high road when he thinks he's been snubbed.

But I have a mantra that will help in this situation. One that reminds me never to leave the house in sweatpants or sweatshirts. Or anything in a fabric or a shape that might be confused with those items.

It's simple: nothing bad can happen to you as long as you're wearing a cute outfit.

And the dress I'm wearing is hella cute, so Dusty can ask about or allude to whatever he wants. I don't have to play along. Because cute dress. New boots, too. And good hair as a topper. I smooth my dress and then flick one hand in his direction, waving him away.

“None of your business. So shoo, Dusty. There must be a petty crime somewhere that needs your attention.”

A leer curls the left side of his mouth. “Did you honestly think that running your mouth about shit like that in Deaton's wouldn't get back to me? Are you trying to make me a little jealous, Lace? That's sweet. But you didn't have to go scraping the bottom of the barrel just to get my attention.”

Dusty reaches out and covers a hand over mine, then presses down heavily when I try to pull away. I level my voice. “Go. Away. Dusty.”

Dusty drags his hand away from mine, his fingers tracing over my knuckles and then the pearlescent pink nail polish I put on last night. I may have to soak my entire hand in rubbing alcohol later. When he looks me dead in the eye, I clench my jaw, hoping he'll just leave. Instead, he leans forward and smirks.

“You never were the sharpest tool in the shed, Lacey. But spreading your legs for Jake Holt? New low. Enjoy it while it lasts, because even he isn't stupid enough to cash in and come back here. For you? No way.”

So much for mantras.

The UPS lady was a welcome sight after Dusty left. Halfway through unpacking a second box of new inventory just delivered, I'm finally able to stop the sting of my eyes watering. Because I refuse to actually cry over any of this.

The truth of it is, Jake left Crowell for a reason—and no matter how good he makes me feel or how fun it is to enjoy a guy this way, he stayed away for a reason, too. What it might take for him to return is a mystery. Another untimely Jenkins-Mosely delivery? Probably a bit much to expect Kate to have another baby just to get him back here.

The front door bell tinkles. Craning my ear toward the doorway, I don't hear anything beyond the shuffle of heavy shoes. Probably one of the old-timers stopping in to pick up something for the wife. I turn my attention back to the order, figuring I can at least get the rest of the items unboxed and separated into neat rows before anyone out there needs me.

The shuffling comes closer until I hear a jangle and a manly throat clearing.

Immediately, my body stiffens and I stand up straight from the bent-over-at-the-waist position I was in. When I'm upright again, my hands ball into fists and my shoulders immediately tighten up toward my ears. Not again.

“Go away, Dusty. Seriously. I'm not kidding.”

“Now, that's just cruel.”

At the sound of that voice, my fists unclench and my shoulders go slack. I turn and Jake is standing in the door opening to my makeshift office, his hands raised above his head, grasping the top of the doorjamb and stretching forward into the posture. Grinning so broadly that his cute little dimple is in full effect.

He's wearing a pair of worn-out tan pants and a nearly threadbare flannel shirt with a black puffy vest jacket over the top. Standing there looking like some sort of god-awful sexy hipster lumberjack, just as Sandi alluded to that night at Lonigan's. Like he could fell a tree in my yard and then turn it into some fabulous rustic farmhouse-inspired wood dining table. Or a bed. Even better.

“First, you call me Dusty, which is a stab to the heart, really. Then you stand up, denying me any further pleasure of you bent over in that dress and those boots. Heartless woman. What did I ever do to deserve such treatment?”

I shake my head and smile. “Nothing. I take it back. Should I bend over again?”

Jake closes his eyes for a beat. “Not yet.” When he opens them again, he lets his hands drop from the doorjamb and they bounce loosely at his sides. His gaze settles on my face. “Why are your eyes red? Did Dusty do something?”

Looking away, I try to alter my demeanor with a shrug and mumble that it's nothing. Jake moves into the room, crosses over to my desk, then perches on the edge of it. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Let me guess. He came here and said something so witty it brought tears to your eyes.”

“Um, no.”

“Charming?”

“No.” I let a small grin begin to tug at the corners of my mouth.

“Insightful? Thoughtful? Socially observant?”

Finally, I give in and laugh. “Of course not.”

Jake's arms drop and he opens them toward me. “You'll have to come closer if you want me to make it better.”

I take a near leap across the room and shove my way against him. When he puts his arms around me, circling my waist, and then squeezes, his head coming to rest and bury in my hair, Dusty being here an hour ago, claiming Jake wouldn't choose me feels like a lie. A bad memory that can't have actually happened. The morose mirage of a beer belly and gibberish.

A heavy scruff of beard growth is across Jake's jaw and chin, rubbing against my temple, and when I recognize how good it feels, I burrow closer until my lips meet the skin of his neck. He smells like nothing but a guy. No cologne, no aftershave. Not even the hint of soap. Just the unadorned scent of him, which is more than enough. It takes all my determination to stop from licking his neck.

Jake loosens his grip and leans back until he can see my face, our noses nearly grazing at the tips. “Better? Do you want to tell me about it?”

I shake my head. “Nothing to tell.”

Jake tucks a few pieces of my hair behind my ear. “Can we talk about this dress, then?”

His eyes drop and he leans back a bit to make a thorough inspection, letting out a low whistle from between his teeth. “Did Trevor tell you I was coming today? I'm praying that this whole getup was for my benefit.” He steeples his hands in front of his chest. “Please. Just for me.”

Thank God. Cute outfit equals nothing bad can happen. Jake, without even knowing it, just restored power to my guiding mantra. “Do you approve? I was a little worried it's too tight.”

Jake makes a face of mock horror. “No such thing.”

“Are you sure? I mean, take a good look, Jake. I want your honest opinion.” I manage to turn a bit in his grip and pretend to take an inspection of my own form from the back. Jake gives up a small grunt and tugs me toward him again.

“My honest opinion is that the only way this dress might look hotter is if you're bent over at the waist again. Or if it's just off. On the floor somewhere.”

“I don't think you have a future as a fashion stylist. To answer your question, though, I didn't know you were coming. You just happened to be in the neighborhood or what?”

“Trevor hired me to fly a bunch of things up from their house in LA. Sounds like they've decided to stay hunkered down here for longer than they originally planned and apparently, Kate really needs every book she's ever owned brought back here. And Trevor wanted a couple of his mountain bikes. The guy's garage looks like a freaking sporting-goods store—there have to be at least twenty bikes in there. It's crazy.” Jake laughs and runs his hands up my back gently.

I almost knew the answer before he said it, so I shake off the brief jolt of disappointment at the hope that he might have come just to see me. The decision to kiss him comes before I can remind myself to hold back.

When my mouth finds his, Jake reacts instantly. No hesitation, no surprise evident in the move of his lips against mine, only the feel of his hands grabbing on to my waist, his tongue flicking to mine, the shift of his limbs so that he can bring my body snugly against the opening between his legs. His hands don't stay against my waist for long, just seconds really, then they slip along the thin knit fabric to the space where my hips curve to the small of my back, passing to my ass just as swiftly. As his grip turns aggressive there, full hands spread demandingly and the sound of him going nuts at the feel of me, my mind turns fuzzy with only a singular idea in mind. I want this. I want the three-dimensional experience of our aural fantasies. Temporary or not, I want this.

Jake tugs back from me and runs his hands down the front of my body, those large hands of his, palms and fingers spread wide so he makes contact with every inch from my clavicle to my hips.